


Skeletons and sweaters

by Kankrius



Category: Homestuck
Genre: And I don't want to spend another minute without you in it by my side as some I would die for, For a Friend, M/M, Mentions of self-harm, Minor Sexual themes, Pale to Red, Pale-Red Vacillation, Palerom, Sweater-bro, Thanks for putting up with me all this time, You're one of the most amazing people I have ever met in my existence on this subtly spinning rock, love you, redrom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 03:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4164384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kankrius/pseuds/Kankrius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pale to red Kurkri.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skeletons and sweaters

**Author's Note:**

> For you, Karri.

January, February, March, April, May, the months seemed to flow in the perfect tandem of a healthy, beating heart, orthodox a consistent faze before pearl-embroidered perceptions found themselves bearing witness to. Their owner a dishevelled melange of vivacious ebony locks that sprawled against a surface mindless fingertips absently traced, pressing at the seeming ghost-image of but a mere memory projection. It was odd to classify something as tangible as this pillow but a mere figment of another's recollection, an eventful occurrence taken place several sweeps prior.

The comprehending digits continued to prod at the lace of a velvet cushion, the foreboding ghastly opacity of milk-white irises blinking open as conscious stirred the bubbles intrusive carapace. Inkling coherence dawned as the beings stiff figure found their joints groaning in disagreement, protest encouraging a low rumble of dissatisfaction elicited from the deep of either profound or limited misuse, the reverberation of vocal chords bred as the figure sat upright if within nigh irritation.

 

Luminescence poured from the fixtures looming far beyond the ghosts reach, swinging faintly in the bracken of sunrise, or a supposed one at that. From the persons skulls, protruding the thick mess of dark locks atop their frame, were two crimson, amber and fluorescent yellow-coated appendages, and extraterrestrial grey-skin to match. Ivory cores found themselves wandering the room once more behind a thick strand of their matted, onyx hair. It was quite evident they were not alone, if the vague inhalation of what seemed to be unconscious breathing concluded such a statement.

The alien hesitantly took in their companions figure that had a steady rise and fall to the bare chest dusted with fair muscular aberrations upon the abdominal region, and thin, though strong bones of the masculine-individuals ribcage jutting out from malnourishment. Faint indentations pertaining as to where their infancy-limbs had once been in grubhood, climbed up either opposing inclination of the mans posture, three blood-colour infused ovular adaptations lining the lithe slides of the undeniably lanky troll. Broad shoulders were decorated with a litter of scars of unknown origin brought recollection of the night prior to the speculators recognition, for they were none other than the infamous Insufferable, though Kankri was such a terminology of phrasing that abridged the inconsolable existence of the nickname donned by his peers over the sweeps. It simplistically was but a quaint joke that mirrored reflective to his Beforan-selves untimely demise, preaching to the masses of societal justice, only to be undone by the one thing they admired most. The contemplation grew sickening, and a scowl drew their temples in tightly, masticating against his own bottom enamel when emotion threatened to make an unwarranted appearance.

 

Fury scoured the span of his cognizance licked by the flame of doubt and arrogance, allowing the burn to eradicate but the most vile of tempest in his throat by which grew callous as claws were fervently scratched against flesh in hasty effort to be rid of the unwelcome presence. He'd gone so long without reducing himself to dubious standards, if the fading sores against the smooth skin of his lips posed any reassurance.

'The fools', thought he asunder in the brew of mornings lark, fidgeting once more with the smooth fabric beneath smooth fingers. It would not be long before his partner would awaken, having they never been quite the lightest sleeper since a past tragedy involving both the Mage and the Prince. For the moment, a gentle surge of colour dusted the Vantas's small cheek-bones as he watched the other rest, consequently finding his own person tensed with longing as minutes dragged on without finish. If not until a steady groan captured the silence in its vice, encouraging Kankri to shift in place to once-again regard the Makara with a fond, complacent smile twitching to either corner of his mouth in response.

It was not that he had never heard Kurloz produce such minuscule noises in his unconscious mind, however it was always a delight to have audible clarification from the mute boy, a voice Kankri himself longed to hear. The prince had always possessed a deep, gruff-pitch whenever rambling furthermore in germane to his obtuse religion, all absurdities the Vantas fathomed as to why he wished so gravely to listen to. No suitable answer arose to the notion, as it silently eased out of mind, before the night before's events replayed itself before the glaze of his barren optics.

 

\--

 

Hours in the past, but not many..

 

Teeth, tongue, roaming, perspiration. All said elements consumed the red-clad trolls thoughts, furled fervently with a calling passion and the residues of his sweeps pledged to abstinence of every form, set aflame at the very brush his partners fingers would make against his cheeks. Despite Kurloz lacking the significant proportions to properly return Kankri's ravenous advance, responded by treating every patch of skin with a pepper of gentle caresses. But as time wore on, frail advancement further than the mashing of lips took place, beginning with the Makara's ridiculous skeletal suit. The removal process grew tedious, however patient in the form of either party for, both were well aware as to how far their intimacy would range. Despite the power differentiation, no marks littered either troll, save for the most minuscule of claw scratches warranted through the span of either's profuse arousal in the most exhilarating sense.

Kankri had never been met with such a form of indecency through the millennia of chaste existing, the drive for some foreign case of passion scourging through his mutant-blooded veins. The silence between them, with exception to the whines of doubt hushed by his partners skilled touch, fingers that could convey a purposeful meaning in which transcended the very own he preached for days. It was the lucid movement of every gesture, the mingling of cool and warm air billowing like fog against the others lips, frantic in the sense neither wished for the sentiment to end, despite knowing it must. To hell with 'must'. They were dead, mere shells in semblance to the vessels both once occupied, before the game.

 

Makara and Vantas harboured similar intent, to evaluate all counterproductive measures so SGRUB, the alpha-session would not introduce their untimely demise. A world where a paradox was as harmful as sin. Very few of their teammates managed to appraise the Godtier, however neither of the two trolls infatuated with one another were apart of, said select alignment. The Prince of Rage, and Seer of Blood, far too enamoured in the cravings of a gesture foreign to either. Meulin and Kurloz's relationship for the most part had been a suitably stable one, save for the cognizant-possession every now and again, though despite its wrongs, the Subjuggulator would persistently tell himself it was for her safety, because at that time, no others could have brushed at the rawness of his apathetic nature and looming insanity. The crude imagery danced across his conscious and opposing mind at the second guard was lowered, considering himself a fool for attempting to berate it as long as he had. However now, now with the decorating chasms within his thicker hide, lines of sorrow, fury and fright danced along to the lament of the Makara's own obstruction. He'd long-since disregarded how feeble and pathetic means had become, that long-lost sense of hope and enlightenment but mere shadows in a world punctured by light, and only such. However oddly enough, Kurloz discovered that he was not the line candle within a fully-luminescent chamber. There was another, it's flickering flame almost as desperate as that of his withering own.

 

It was at that moment that a new dance was born. One with a sweeping lucidity and clandestine definition behind the every bite of each other's nails against flesh passed asunder. It was difficult, resistance being futile for the most part, however nothing would transpire, as the transgression and gentle hands exploring the fibres of the other man's structure brought enough satisfaction to engulf their entire timeline, is ghostly intervention happened to be under said, jurisdiction. But neither could summon a single care to give.

 

\--

 

Days in the past, but not many..

 

It had begun almost three days prior, the flourishing rush of concupiscent attraction stealing air from unnecessary organs, and cold or warm flushes from misinterpreted means in the most simplistic of a gesture. Two trolls bound by the logistics of Moirallegiance began to notice the different elements in the other as time dragged on after something so simple as romantic implication.

Where pillow talks and pile sessions scheduled for the passing of every day ignited a less passive form of admiration, and it was evident the angst roused them both to uncertainty and infantile longing. Desires to share hands for hours on end circulating through their blood of a high temperature difference. Kankri, the mutant, of varying warmth and mantra, a soul sound, yet vibrating with tension unheard. Kurloz, cool and chilled to the ghost of a breath that would head against pale skin in the hours that obscurity consumer either trolls perception, contemplation scouring their minds as meaning sprawled itself unconsciously across cognizant beings. His conscience a writhing tendril of composure upon a surface sublime with an eerie glance smeared with a traditional amount of facial paints and modification.

Both were ramified with sensible absence of similarity, yet drifted to the others binding mutually, what made it so?

 

It began at a session and a tangle of limbs, shallow honks of understanding and an impalpable quantity of whimpering sobs. It wasn't the first time such an occasion had come to pass, save for the bitter ideology that designed carvings that lay anew against wrists welling with the droplets of scarlet, translucent tears of anguish and shame as the emotions forever concealed overflowed at out a brush of the Makara's digits, curiosity ensnaring the convenience of understanding.

 

"Kurl9z, I t9ld y9u I am fine." But the assurance was invalid as tentative fingers prodded at the area the caused a Moirallegiance to flinch.

"Kurl9z." Tugging.. Protest.

"Kurl9z please." Another.. Protest

"KURL9Z ST9P." He stops.

 

The boy before him was now visibly shuddering with contempt, grip fastened against the clowns own wrists, the fabric skidding up oh too far for comfort. He knows. I’m sorry brother. I’m sorry.

There is a gasp, then a violent growl rising to a hollow throat tangible lacked use, fangs baring themselves through the inside orifice of thread-bound maws, string snapping with the gesture of hostility, and his eyes opaque from the afterlife darkening one or two shades more with the response. His mind is lost, spiralling, and he recalls soft pleads, thoughtless apology and more cherry-red tears. He hates seeing those tears. At once, at the remark, he's back, returning to conscious rebuttal with a semblance of fear etching across subjuggulating characteristics. His hands drop, fury buried beneath concern, pity, admiration and he's lurking forwards, timid yet wanton with need for a connection, a reminder of the sane. He doesn't expect the mutant to respond first.

Weight off-balance, they tumble down the soft mound of precariously place sweaters of plenty, grunting as the cool concrete surface meets their touch, but neither concedes to move. At this point, hands are joined tightly together, and legs wound with the worry the other may disappear, and the sanctum of loneliness would consume their persons again, knowing fully-well as to what they would do in the dark. But now they were drunken off the others hold, inane cries of protest evident when either would move if in the slightest manner.

 

It was obvious that tonight would be similar to that of many others thereon.

 

\--

 

Months in the past, but not many..

"H9nestly Makara, I had at least the shad9w 9f a clearly p9intless d9u6t that y9u were if /s9mewhat/ tidy, h9wever perceiving this filthy hive 9f y9urs, I can clearly 6e assured as t9 9therwise."

 

The red-sweatered trolls went on as the two entered what was originally the concept of Kurloz's hive, a spacious castle-like home with a thickening mist of shadow collecting near the base of the habitation, rolling in tendrils against the ground blackened with misuse. It was safe to assume, in the very least, that there was hope in the creaky establishment towering menacingly overhead, the flashes of occasional, repetitive lightning from yonder serving as an eerie backdrop to their Makara's hive,

 

"I haven't the slightest ramificati9n 9f a clue quite as t9 why anytr9ll w9uld represent their pers9n with such un9rth9d9x a living pasture. I kn9w f9r a fact my 9wn is deli6erate in the p9rtrayal 9f a well-mannered hive, cleanly and s9phisticated in all senses 9f the w9rd, th9ugh 9f c9urse I mean n9t t9 6rag, as that w9uld 6e irate 9f me t9 d9, c9nsidering the c9nditi9ns 9f, well.. Y9ur quarters 9f living, n9, after-living. Ah, yes, that's much 6etter. H9wever pard9n my faceless misuse 9f such a term, as I am aware 9f the fact it may still 6e a rather s9re su6ject, especially after all these sweeps pertaining t9 f99lish nature. #Menti9ns 9f death, #After-living, #Mindless 6errati9n, #Hive-shaming." Kankri seemed to go on endlessly, yet Kurloz remained stoic and attentive. Truth be told, he minded not listening to the Vantas's monologues. The amount in which they spoke certainly made up for the lack of voice that he maintained. Also, in the favour of a bright-side, there was a deep unused affection building within, yearning to sympathize with another, however in whatever fashion the Makara was unaware. A frown softly grew to cascade the paint-smeared characteristics he bore day after day, scarcely revealing what he was to any, regardless of the circumstance. The Prince of Rage was uncharacteristically shy whenever asked to remove his paint’s, reacting brashing and offering the notorious one-fingered salute with that chilling smile he’d mastered after sweeps of wandering stag.

 

Kankri seemed to pick up upon his shift, brows furrowing in the slightest as a taut line to were his pursed lips spoke once more, however this time with a softer tone Kurloz never figured would ever hear when speaking in germane to his person. He wasn’t exactly the most desired companion, “Kurl9z, I gravely ap9l9gize if I 9ffended y9u in any way.. It truly was n9t 9f my intenti9ns t9 make y9u unc9mf9rta6le. I supp9se s9metimes my ranting gets 9ut 9f hand. And yes, I d9 admit the maj9rity 9f the time I am merely the singular 6eing 9ral, nevertheless, it’s simply a matter 9f prejudice that I feel, as a mutant #6l99d-castes, #Acquiescence, 6ligati9ns, and I w9n’t use that term lightly as I am attempting t9 6e as c9mf9rta6le with my lineage as I can manage. H9wever I d9 n9t 9utwardly seek t9 upset any within my general vicinity, and certainly n9t 9ne such as y9urself as we’re all well aware pertaining t9 what y9u are capa6le 9f as a high6l99d, #6l99d-caste menti9ns, #Superi9rity, it w9uld simply 6e f99lish 9n my part t9 d9 s9 6ut als9.. Y9u’re my friend, and I w9uldn’t want t9 drive y9u away, much like I have many 9thers with my s9cial-justice insinuati9n.”

 

Kurloz, without meaning, visibly flinched at their remark implying simply how dangerous he was because of the sickly hue in which flourished through his veins, cold and rough against a near-leather like hand marked with the scars of weakness and fear. He disliked hearing the other apologize, especially for something regarding his person, so he was quick to replace, said discomfort with the bright smile he could manage behind thread that bore themselves through his flesh.

Though the Vantas did not seem quite convinced, the subject was dropped then and there.

 

Throughout the span of that following evening, and several faygo-bottles being tossed out to the exterior of Kurloz’s foreboding home, the place was slowly but surely coming together in a way the highblood never presumed it to be. Amazement every then and there would flicker behind alabaster perceptors, earning the minuscule smile of Kankri each occasion he caught genuine emotion spread to the taller beings characteristics. The Vantas was always curious quite as to how he’d manage to befriend their Prince of Rage, knowing fully well of what occurred between them and Meulin, the relationship resulting in her permanent disability, Kankri found himself unafraid of this presence and if anything, profoundly delightful. He’d listen whenever he spoke, and never once would elicit annoyance, unless it was in but a manner of being playful and mocking. Nonetheless, the Seer of Blood found a true grin etching itself to his orifice more often than not until a compromising position from the abrupt flailing of limbs and otherwise, found both boys entangled on the floor, thick rope encasing the two figures within a dome of finely-knotted material. They were trapped it seemed.

 

The first few minutes of struggling beneath the net was tolerable, to say the least, before the boy’s body temperature beneath drew Kurloz’s towering frame closer, “Kurl9z Makara, y9u get 9ff 9f me right this instant, I am n9t y9ur pers9nal mechanism designed f9r pr9ducing immense am9unts 9f heat. I find y9ur gravitati9n t9wards my natural c9re temperature t9 6e highly 9ffensive, and 6esides, Y9U’RE REALLY C9LD, GET 9FF Y9U RIDICUL9US CL9WN. #UNC9MFORTA6LE, #TW.” Truth be told however, the Seer did not mind having such contact, despite the circumstances in which brought them to such a position of problematics, however, to be physically within contact with another was relaxing in a way, despite being incredibly uncomfortable with being touched. Kankri knew he would verbalize this later whenever they were free of this trap, and oh would he have something to say.

 

What transitioned to a few minutes stretched to hours and deep frustrated grunting on the Makara’s part each time they propped themselves up in yet another attempt of freeing them from the confinement. Neither minded though, but it was a matter of admittance that lingered above their heads. Surprisingly, Kurloz was the first to say something, or, so the closest way he could with the dance of his gloved, skeletal-digits.

<MOTHERFUCKER, I’VE GOT AN UNHOLY CONFESSION TO MAKE AT YOUR PERSON.> The words processed slower than the Vantas would have been content with, still new to the matter of sign-language in general. Recognizing a few of the phrases made, he tipped his head to the side in question for Kurloz to go on, certainly not expecting the light pepper of colour to tinge his high-cheek bones.

<WELL, THE SHIT’S PRETTY LAME AND ALL, BUT I KINDA AM FLUSHED FOR YOU, BROTHER. ALL PALE AND THAT WICKED WICKED BLISS. SO I’M KINDA ASKING IF YOU WANNA BE MY PALEMATE. THE SHIT’S CHEESY AS THE NEXT OF THOSE ABSURD DAIRY-PRODUCTS, BUT IT’S A THING THAT’S MAKING MY BLOOD-PUSHER BEAT LIKE THE ROLLING THUNDER THAT IS ENTRANCING PENUMBRA, MY MAN. I JUST WANNA BE NEAR YOU, AND JAM. MITUNA’S CHILL AND ALL, BUT HIS COLLATERAL THINK-PAN STRUGGLES MAKE IT HARD FOR THE DUDE TO COMPREHEND MY BIZNASTY OF SIGNS, YOU FEEL? BUT ANYWAY, I WAS JUST UP AND CURIOUS IF MAYBE YOU’LL LAY OFF THAT NO-QUADRANT THING FOR ME, OR JUST A CHANCE TO. Y’ALL DON’T NEED TO FEEL OBLIGED, AND I WOULDN’T MOTHERFUCKIN BLAME YOU IF YOU REFUSE, CAUSE LIKE, WHO WANTS TO SHARE THE STARDUST OF WONDROUS DISARRAY WITH A CLOWNIE LIKE ME. JUST, IF ANYTHIN’ MAKES YOU UNCOMFO, LET ME KNOW AND I’LL LAY OFF MY TWISTED CONTORTIONS, AIGHT BROTHER? SWEATER-BRO? YOU THERE?>

  
Neither of them knew it, but those first words would bloom to a deeper scarlet, a colour that puts even the most vibrant of a rose to shame. But that is simply how love presents itself. Isn’t it.


End file.
